The Flesh Is Not Weak
Fred L. Taulbee Jr.
Copyright 2011 Fred L. Taulbee Jr.
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She sat in a chair by her shack, gnarled fingers like small brown roots sticking out of a towel wrapped around her hands to keep them warm, eyes on one of the two paths that led to her shack, one trodden so much it was mud, the other a path of short grass weaving through pine and birch trees. Soon the girl would come running along the well-traveled trail, shoes crunching down on the frozen mud and cracking the ice on tiny puddles. It was going to be a very cold and wet winter, just like last year.
She heard the girl coming from the wrong path, her shoes crunching the frosted crabgrass instead of the frozen mud. The old lady stood, angry and worried. She unwrapped the blanket from her hands and whipped it onto the chair. The girl stopped in front of her, a basket in her arms.
"Didn't I tell you not to come that away?"
"Yes, ma'am," the girl said panting. "But it's shorter."